


Something to Share

by tanukiham



Series: Let Me Get That For You [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, abuse of tense and grammar, poorly negotiated kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: This might not be how it happened, but it could have been.How Fenris ended up handing over his lover on a silver platter.Or a story about knowing what you want, and being terrified by it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I missed Fenris bossing Carver around in bed. That is pretty much the entirety of this ficlet. That and neither of them being very good at talking about anything.
> 
> Also, I'm not trying to suggest that what Carver and Fenris fantasise about is good for anyone, I'm just, yeah, pretty sure this is what they fantasise about.

This might not be how it happened, but it could have been.

Carver was being a brat -- they had only recently taken back up together, were sharing a room in an inn somewhere near Starkhaven, and Carver clearly felt Fenris was not paying him sufficient attention so, of course, he wriggled and whined like an ignored pup.

Fenris tired of it quickly. He caught Carver by the collar of his shirt and yanked him down to the mattress. "Stop. Or must I leash you?"

It made him laugh in little voiceless huffs. "Like a dog?"

"Like a slave," Fenris said, and Carver made a face. Things like that made him uncomfortable, as if the reminder of Fenris' slavery hurt him. Perhaps it did. Fenris, however, did not feel that Carver's hurt feelings outweighed his own in this. "Perhaps I should gag you."

"Oh?" His mouth turned sly. "With what?"

It was useless. Fenris put aside his book (Carver had bought it for him, so it seemed unfair of Carver to get so in the way of his puzzling through it) and twisted to straddle Carver's chest. Carver allowed this, hands coming up to cup Fenris' thighs through his leggings. "With whatever I like."

"I know what _I'd_ like," Carver said, and he tried to sound bold but his face was too red to carry it off. (This was before he learned shamelessness -- the memory of his blushes are bittersweet in that they came from a time in which it was easy to hurt and be hurt, and have now largely evaporated from the bedroom.)

"Indeed." Fenris considered it, winding his fingers in Carver's hair. "You are predictable. I should not allow myself to become so, to you."

Carver wet his lip. "Want to do something new, then?"

"Perhaps what I want from you is _respect_ ," Fenris said, tightening his grip until Carver hissed.

"I respect you. Don't I?"

"Not like that." Now that he had said it aloud it seemed odd not to have done so before. They played other games. Carver _liked_ being leashed, or at least he liked it when Fenris tied his hands behind his back and took his pleasure of him. If swearing and cursing and begging could be taken as enjoyment.

Sobbing. Fenris liked making Carver sob. Carver nearly always liked it too.

But this game they had not played. "Perhaps I want your obedience."

"You want to boss me around?"

"I want you to call me 'ser'."

Carver's eyes widened, just a fraction. "I'm a Lieutenant now," he said, and Fenris could see the demand had unbalanced him. "I don't get a lot of practice calling people 'ser' anymore."

"Perhaps that is why I want it."

"You're full of 'perhapses' tonight." He seemed to come to a decision, cocking his chin. "Ser."

It sounded unnatural in his mouth, which was strange because Carver had spent years saying it -- in the Gallows, in Val Royeaux, and Starkhaven. Fenris wondered what it meant to him. He must have said it dozens of times to men and women he did not respect, a hollow 'ser' more reflex than anything. Now, though, he was awkward.

Fenris dismounted and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Kneel at my feet."

It took a moment, but then Carver rolled onto his belly and grabbed the edge of the bed to pull himself along it in a lazy sprawl -- Fenris knotted his fingers in Carver's hair at once, holding him still. "Is that how you would obey your Commander? Or your Knight Captain?"

Carver went still. Then-- "No, ser," he said. This time it sounded different.

Fenris let go. "Do it."

"Yes, ser." He pushed himself up, and scrambled over the edge, dropping to his knees between Fenris' feet. He had his chin up but his eyes were fixed on a point beside Fenris' head. He tucked his hands behind his back, and his expression was quite blank.

Fenris took the time to observe him, his great brute of a human lover. He had finally grown into his body, no longer the gangly awkward boy he had been when they met. But he was still young, still blue-eyed and raven-haired, like a farm-boy in a ballad, broad-chinned and easy to blush (then), despite the filthy things he begged for when in the throes of his passion. (This was before the scar. Fenris agrees with Isabela -- the scar makes him rakish -- and does not mourn Carver's unmarked skin.)

And now kneeling, sweetly obedient, at Fenris' feet. Or not so sweetly -- there was something rebellious in him still. Perhaps it was his mouth.

Well, there was a solution for that. Fenris unfastened his leggings, drawing himself out of his smalls. He was soft, but that was acceptable. "Do you want this?" he asked, and Carver breathed out, looking down.

"Yes, ser."

"Then tend to it."

"Yes, ser."

His mouth was wet, and hot, and all the things Fenris knew it to be. This was nothing new. Fenris leaned back on the palm of one hand, watching Carver suck at him. There had been a time when Carver had not known this was a thing he could do, to take a man into his mouth and make him hard. To enjoy it. He was as always eager to please, hungry and thirsty and a glutton for his wants. Fenris laced his free hand in Carver's hair and pressed down. Carver allowed this, teetering on his knees with his hands behind his back. Fenris let him breathe and did it again, and again, and each time Carver accepted it. This was not something they had not practiced, after all. It was a balancing act between Carver's capacity and his willingness to have Fenris in his throat. Fenris knew why Carver liked it, why he liked it himself, why both of them were reluctant to indulge too often. (They were still afraid of themselves. The acceptance is hard-earned and comes much later.)

Of course, Carver's best work was done when Fenris let him have his head, so he let go, stroking Carver's scalp with his fingertips. Usually Carver would look up at him from beneath dewy black lashes and the shock of it would jolt through Fenris' belly, make him want to curl around Carver's mouth and jerk into his flesh. This time Carver kept his head bent, eyes down, mouth full.

He was too good at this for it to last long, and in any case Fenris did not mean for it to. He rarely spilled in Carver's mouth (the implications of the lyrium in his spend were too harrowing then, not yet grown from a fear into a fetish) but this time he cupped a hand around the base of Carver's skull and let the hot thread of bliss wind tight in him until it could only snap. 

"My knight," he gasped. 

Carver made a wet, helpless sound, though he did not pull away until Fenris pushed him off, and then he turned his face against Fenris' knee, shuddering all over.

Fenris licked his lips, weak in his aftermath and overblown. "Shall I take care of you?" In a moment, he would, just a moment to regroup.

But Carver shook his head, and when he looked up there was something wild and hurt in his face. "No. I don't-- what's the _point_ of this?"

Fenris sat up, wondering if this had been a mistake. But what he said was, "Have you ceased to be respectful, then?"

Carver flinched, his gaze skittering about to end up somewhere on Fenris' chest. Definitely a mistake. Fenris relegated the game to the list of things Carver Did Not Like (it was still short, because there are many things they won't try until much later) considering how to--

"No, ser," Carver said.

Oh.

In that case.

"Why do you think there needs to be a point to this?"

Carver bit his lip. It was such a childish habit, inappropriate on a man who had swallowed a mouthful of Fenris' spend just now, and could probably still feel the tingle of lyrium in his throat. "It feels pointed, ser."

"In what direction?"

This time he met Fenris' eye. "My Captain, ser."

Fenris realised he was right, and wondered how he could have been so remiss in knowing this about himself. Carver's Knight Captain, now Knight Commander of the Gallows. The only Captain that counted, with him. Carver had respected him and pined for him, Fenris was certain, though he suspected it had come to nothing in the end.

"You were lovers," he said anyway, and was pleased to see Carver shake his head.

"No, ser."

"You wanted it."

Carver closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "Ser." It was a yes, and they both knew it.

This man who hung between them like a ghost, or an open wound. Fenris could never help himself when it came to wounds of this nature -- he needed to prod at the flesh. He was incapable of leaving such things alone.

"Strip."

"... yes, ser."

Carver did it quickly, not looking at Fenris and certainly not looking at the phial Fenris fetched out of his pack. Then he settled his feet, hands behind his back again, and stared at the wall above Fenris' head. Fenris had seen him do this before, but he had never seen him do it naked.

Fenris got up, made a show of looking Carver over. This was supposed to be for his benefit, after all, this body on display for him, this half-hard cock exposed at his whim. Carver was flushed, colour spilling down his throat and chest. It was lovely to see.

"You wanted your Captain. Did you want him to see you like this?"

Carver made a strangled noise. "Ser..."

"Would you have shown him if he had ordered you to do so?"

"I..."

"If you want to stop, then say so. Otherwise answer the question."

" _Yes_ ," Carver said, like it had been punched out of him. For a moment Fenris thought he meant 'Yes, stop', but-- "Yes, ser. I ... yes."

It was a giddy-making thing, the admission itself and how painfully it had been drawn. To have this power over Carver because he allowed it. Fenris wet his lip, and said, "Brace yourself on the bed."

Carver shuddered and did so, resting his weight on his forearms and spreading his thighs. Fenris laid a hand on his spine above the crest of his buttocks. He was quivering, tiny little tremors. Fenris wanted two things equally in that moment -- to wrap around and hold him safe, and to see him break. 

"Did you imagine this? For your Captain?"

Quietly, "Yes, ser."

"You would not have offered it. He would have had to take it from you." 

Silence. Fenris could interpret it well enough.

"Did he order you, in this fantasy?"

Carver let his head hang low between the heavy muscles of his shoulders. "Yes, ser."

Something in the shame of it made Fenris hesitate. He could feel the shape of something secret, he _knew_ it. "It was a punishment."

"... ser."

Ah. _This_ fantasy. "Then I will have to strap you first."

It seemed fitting to unbuckle one of the lengths of leather that allowed him to bear his sword on his back -- Carver would see it every day and remember. So Fenris did, doubling it over in his hand. 

"You have brought this on yourself," he said, tapping Carver's flesh with the leather. "You know your crimes."

"Ser, yes, ser."

"Do not disappoint me again."

It was only a handful of strokes, and Carver bore each of them silently. The marks were livid on the palest stretch of his skin, and Fenris thought, _I have done this to him. I have enjoyed it. I will never let him do this to me. He will never ask._

And then, because this was _that_ fantasy, Fenris took him. He used the oil, of course, but he was rough about it, the way Carver was always goading him to be, the way he was half afraid of being. (This was before they ever talked about it, of course, it had to be.) Carver gasped and moaned, pleading with a litany of, "Please, ser, _please_ ," and Fenris pretended not to hear the unspoken, _Cullen, Cullen, Cullen._

When Carver broke he did it face down on the covers, sobbing something Fenris refused to hear, and Fenris bore down on him, rutting him through it, and collapsing sweat-soaked along his spine.

It took a little while for them both to find themselves, afterward.

Fenris rolled away. He hurt. He had hurt Carver. He was going to hurt Carver again now, and he could not stop himself. "Would you rather?"

_Would you rather him than me?_

Carver shuddered like he was coming apart. "Don't do that to me. Fenris, I only just got you _back_." When he came up his face was wet with sweat and other things, and he pressed his slick cheek to Fenris' shoulder. "We're good, aren't we?" _You're not leaving me, again?_

"We are."

He sagged, breathing out. "Thank fuck for that. 'Cos you can't make me play sex games and then get mad about it. I won't play if you do."

"You can stop me, at any time. You must, if you do not want to go on." The thought of Carver tolerating it once it had gone beyond a game for him ... he twisted to align himself down Carver's side, ribcage to ribcage. "Promise me."

It earned him a snort. "I told you once. You can do anything you want to me."

"No. I want your word on this, Carver Hawke."

Carver glanced at him, and smiled. "Okay. You have my word."

"That you will _stop_ me. Otherwise--" 

_Otherwise I will hurt you and it will be irrevocable, and I will lose you forever, you, mine, please don't let me--_

"I'll stop you, I swear." Carver kissed him. It took a while, and when he was done he sighed and leaned his head on Fenris' shoulder. "You know I love you, don't you? Even when you're being a, a demanding jerk."

"Especially when I am being a 'demanding jerk'," Fenris corrected him.

They curled together, slept a little, did not talk about the things they needed to talk about (Carver wasn't ready to confess and Fenris wasn't yet ready to ask) and after that it became a game they played, more and more often. _What if the Knight Commander, what if your Captain, what if Cullen, if these were his hands, his teeth, this his cock, if he fucked you with it the way you beg to be fucked sometimes, what if?_

And then Carver said, "No."

It was on a miserably wet day in autumn. There was another room in another inn and Fenris had had the luxury of a bath, and wine, and now he felt clean and content enough to itch in his belly, hungering for something sharp.

But when he said, "Don't you mean 'yes, ser'?" Carver looked him straight in the eye.

"No. I'm not in the mood."

"You are _always_ in the mood. You tried to make love to me in a swamp. There were _leeches_."

"I'm not 'not in the mood' for _sex_ ," Carver said, rolling his eyes as if it was the most ridiculous suggestion he'd ever heard. "I'm not in the mood for _that_. It's too hard now, I can't--" and he looked away. That was shame on his face. Fenris was horrified.

"Hard?"

"It's too real. And I miss him, and--" Carver shakes his head, "you know I do. Care for him. If I hadn't met you in Starkhaven I'd be back to Kirkwall by now. That's where I was heading. And then." He reached for Fenris' hand. Fenris let him take it though he felt disgusted with himself. Of course Carver had to love the man, not simply long to be skewered on his cock. 

Of course Carver loved _him_ , otherwise he would have gone on to Kirkwall without him.

They played other games, did other things, and Fenris worried. It became obvious, the way Carver turned toward Kirkwall now and then, and how heavily he turned away from it again. How his ears pricked up at the mention of the Gallows, of the Knight Commander there, of Kirkwall Templars. He chatted to a Hunter who had come recently from the Gallows, grilling him on the conditions there, whether they had salvaged much of the Circle. He didn't seem pleased about some of it, but he did not mention Kirkwall to Fenris.

He didn't have to. Fenris knew him better now. Fenris loved him harder, too, and found himself loved harder in return. (This was after the Talk, of course, when Carver had confessed to wanting some things he'd clearly thought very disgusting and Fenris had told him it was fine, and he was fine, and maybe they could. They haven't yet but maybe they will all the same.) It made it easier to think things like, _Nothing would change,_ and, _If it made you happy._

And, _I will not lose you to a fantasy._

"The next mage we find, we should take to Kirkwall," he said, filling Carver's teacup. "If you wanted, we could take ship to Ferelden from there." Winter was creeping up on them, and Fenris had taken to wearing Carver's cloak whenever Carver would allow it. Which, Carver being Carver and indulgent where Fenris was concerned, was nearly always, so Fenris had wrapped himself in it now, though he was wearing nothing else.

Carver blinked at him. _He_ was naked too, though he'd dragged the blankets down off the bed to make a nest before the hearth. He was still stickily sated, and it made him slow. "You hate Kirkwall."

"We would not be going for me."

There were many things Fenris loved about Carver, and many things he loved in spite of knowing them for flaws. For example, Carver's willingness to trust him, when Fenris had proved again and again that he did not deserve it. Now Carver nodded. "Okay then. We can buy you your own bloody cloak while we're there."

He must have known. He didn't say anything about it but later, when Fenris pushed him down on the bed Carver said, "Yes, ser," and Fenris thought _Ah._

Later, standing in the Gallows courtyard, Fenris will see the look on Cullen's face as Carver takes off his helmet and he will think, _Yes._

He'll tell himself this was inevitable. And then he'll make sure of it.


End file.
